Digging In The Dirt
by telemetries
Summary: "Our story expands beyond this decade, beyond my revolutions and dragging past your own." Russia/America. Title's taken from the song of the same name by Peter Gabriel. One-shot.


_i. eighteen hundred and eighty one_

"I want you to know something."

Silky laugh. "I am full of knowledge, Alfred. What could you possibly tell me that I don't already know for myself?"

Lips pursed. "I know things too, asshole. I know a lot of things."

"_Da_, of course, but then, you haven't been around as long as I have, either."

"So? Look, that's not the point. The point is — the point is, I have something I should tell you, that I think you should know."

"And what should I know? Does it involve you?"

Reluctant nod and toothy grin in response. "Then what is there to know? I know that you miss the frontier and you loathe me and my cold weather. I know that you wish that you coud kiss me without being bitten. I know even in the most dire of situations, your heart still bleeds with care and concern, still bleeds with blood that can never turn cold, even for an instant. I know you long for simpler days."

Grin widens.

"I know that you care about me. Whether you want to admit it or not."

Pinched mouth. Alfred draws back his words, as they had already been uttered by a mouth he couldn't help but stare at every chance he got, while wishing that he could grow sunflowers as glorious and large as the ones he'd seen while he was in Ivan's country, massive and silent in its constant mourning for better days unseen. He grimaced, his backbone aching with prospects to come in his own land, modernizing and modernizing and placing an unwanted weight on his brain, with cogs and oil and unnamed things.

* * *

_ii. nineteen hundred and fifty six_

Ivan didn't always apologize for the things he'd done, and neither did Alfred, and they were more alike in this way than either of them (than Alfred) would have liked to admit. In Alfred's mind, they were sitting in a darkened room, eyes boring into each other like termites into fresh, new wood, pincers raking up chunks and splinters and yet never really reaching the core even after years and years of trying. Their hands were fastened on their thighs and their guns, waiting and eager to rip into each other like starved, savage dogs, ribs flaring and metal glistening.

In Ivan's mind, Alfred was the one on his knees, back facing the wall while Ivan emptied his clip into the younger country's heaving chest, a bitter smile raking and tearing at his lips. He would bury him as sincere as Khrushchev, as gentle as Tolstoy, with just a hint of blood staining his iron-heavy fingertips. He would whisper gently, bitingly.

_Our story expands beyond this decade, beyond my revolutions and dragging past your own._

_

* * *

_

_iii. nineteen hundred and seventy two_

On Christmas morning, he'd walked into Alfred's bathroom and found him sitting fully clothed in his faded blue tub, knees drawn up and arms crossed between his thighs. His head was against the off-white tiled wall, as still as a corpse; his jeans were darkened to an inky blue, his white t-shirt clinging to his collarbone and chest. The shower was running, the pipes groaning as the hot and cold water churned as one and drenched Alfred like a sudden rainstorm.

Ivan stood motionlessly in the doorway, as though he was waiting for the lightning and the thunder. He eventually moved forward and turned the knob towards the wall, shutting it off and watching Alfred drip, his skin pale and glistening and shivering, his eyes half-lidded, cornflower blue irises still vivid even under dim shadows.

He'd left Texas on the bathroom counter. Ivan looked over and reached for them, the lenses slightly foggy. He sat down, elbows propped on the rim of the tub, the chill of the tiles going through his trousers, and he gently pushed the glasses up Alfred's long nose.

On Alfred's behalf, the water successfully disguised any tears he might have been shedding at the present time. Ivan sighed and swiped his thumb over Alfred's pink lips, the flesh warm and smooth. He leaned over and kissed them, his breath catching in Alfred's mouth. He felt the low thrum of his heart, resting within an anchored skeleton (that was creaking and chipping and waiting to turn to dust).

"I can't feel anything," Alfred whispered in Ivan's mouth, his hands quaking. "I can hear Vietnam crying her fucking eyes out but I can't — I can't feel your stupid mouth on mine."

Ivan smiled and resisted the urge to lunge forward and press his mouth to Alfred's neck, fully exposed beneath a yellow bathroom light. He heard the rush of blood in his veins, his arteries. He vividly imagined his own teeth scraping Alfred's jugular with the utmost of furious gentleness. "Well, to hell with Hanoi and Haiphong," he said calmly, "and to hell with you, too."

Too bad Ivan hadn't brought vodka. Alfred would have drank to that.

* * *

_iv. nineteen hundred and ninety one_

Slick smells of wind and grain filtered through the noses of farmers in the surrounding area while the birds cawed in the silence, black feathered throats extended, wings carelessly fluttering in a gray sky. Beneath them were two wordless countries, hands in the dirt, mouths clasped shut while the wheat shook all around them, grown higher than their heads.

"It might rain soon," Alfred quietly uttered, his hand inching over to Ivan's, his heart pounding a little. Ivan said and did nothing, save for breathe. Then he lunged forward, disturbing the peace that had enveloped their bodies, his weight upon Alfred anchoring them back to the earth as Ivan took his mouth; selfishly, bitterly, choking back unsaid (unnecessary) threats and warnings and stupid philosophies that even he had begun to question after a hundred years of taking everything in and leaving the past to writhe and rot in the snow.

Here, there was no snow, there was no pain. When it wasn't bringing him murderous feelings or even just a headache, America brought him comfort, brought him a small, thin smile to a cracked mouth, a mouth that was invading Alfred's territories, kissing his neck and his chest and his shoulders. He didn't want to talk, and he didn't want to listen, and he didn't want anything else in this moment but the feel of flesh on his flesh, of bone against his bone, rocking and sliding in the open air.

They remained in a sitting position, clothes and glasses and boots and dog tags and everything else but (delicate) skin shed on the ground, mouths and hands wandering until they found places that once had been bruised, broken, torn, burned. Places they'd been hurt, places they'd healed.

Places they'd forgotten about, wounds left from long ago.

"We can never stay like this," Alfred whispered, "we can't do this forever." His warmth was emanating and overpowering, even in the autumn chill. Ivan clenched onto his back and kissed his mouth once more while Alfred rode him slow and steady, their backs and bodies aching and stretching to be closer than possible.

"Then let's pretend that this is forever," Ivan hissed, "and that neither of us want desperately to cry out in anger or frustration. Let's make our own special peace, you and I."

His hands caressed Alfred's back, muscles and veins clumping and stretching as they strained and fought and settled against another body, another being of flesh and bone, of blood and heart and mouth, and Ivan bit Alfred's lip while his head screamed _mine, mine, mine, mine._


End file.
